4 Times N7 Touched the Sky & One Time He Didn't
by Izzers
Summary: Mereel Skirata has been all over the galaxy. His occupation as Null ARC 7 allows him that sort of freedom. He's graced the Moonlight, Starlight, Sunlight, and Eclipse with his presence, but his experience with The Sky was less than pleasant.


_**A/N:**_ Mereel Skirata is one of my favorite Null ARCs from the Star Wars: Republic Commando series. This was based off a prompt on livejournal, and hence the title. Mereel is a complicated character, and I find I have difficulty writing him from time to time. But hey, there's never enough RepCom fanfic, so... enjoy.

**Edit:** Fixed a typo, sorry!

**Disclaimer: **This is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of any copyright holder. Characters belong to their respective owners.

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**Five Times N-7 Touched the Sky, and One Time He Didn't**

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**i.**

The closest a clone soldier ever gets to time off, otherwise known as _leave_, are the few sessions of flash training doled out in between missions. Of course, while that applies to the majority of the Grand Army of the Republic, Null ARC 7 is not part of this majority—though the official documents state otherwise. And so he enjoys the luxuries that his occupation as an Advanced Recon Commando allows him.

In this case, it allows him a speed of two hundred kilometers an hour, skipping out on open water in a SeaSkimmer that, technically, does not belong to him. Water flares to either side of the vehicle as he cuts across the surface of the planet's ocean, guided more by the pale purple light of the two shining moons than the automated navigational systems.

Free. That's what it feels like. The skimmer's handles jerking in his hands. On the verge of flying out of his exact control. Adrenaline singing in his veins. The spray of ocean on his face. The wind whipping across his eyes.

A breath away from a crash—one that there would be no recovering from.

_Free._

It's a shame he can't keep the SeaSkimmer. A _real_ shame.

**ii.**

The ground quakes beneath his feet. The air smells of fire, ozone, smoke, and burned flesh—even through the filter of his helmet. Intense heat singes his bodysuit. Fire licks the sides of his armor. A warning flashes in the lower right hand corner of his visor's Heads-Up Display: OUTSIDE TEMPERATURES DANGEROUSLY HIGH || SEEK SHELTER IMMEDIATELY. Chunks of burning debris rain down around him, but he pays no attention to them. Instead, he continues at a steady jog to the hangar, two Merr-Sonn blasters held at the ready in the event of a confrontation—though he's certain there won't be one.

Sabotage is his specialty, after all.

He just hadn't planned on still being on the war cruiser when the _alternative_ contingency plans switched into active gear. But as they say, hindsight is always twenty/twenty.

The Null forces his way into the hangar, blowing holes through countless mounds of crispy debris with small det charges until he clears a path to a mostly unharmed freighter. It's a short walk to the cockpit, a short drop into the pilot's chair, and a short moment of silence as he scans the controls. Then his hands fly over the console and the drives breathe to life as the rest of the hangar explodes into flames around him. He casually pulls up the defense and weapons access window on the datascreen, and then roughly jerks the joystick that emerges from the console to his right.

Two screaming missiles tear open a brand new hole in the far wall. The flames shoot out with the escaping oxygen. Normally, emergency systems would immediately kick in to seal a blast shield over the hole, but _someone_ had gone and manually deactivated said system not too long ago.

Smiling to himself, Mereel fires off another round of missiles, blasts away another chunk of the hangar wall, and kicks his freighter's shields to full. The freighter's drives _roar_ into full gear as he jerks the controls and rockets the ship nose-first into the barrier of smoke and scattered debris.

Seconds tick in his head. The hull _groans_ with every unseen collision. Metal screeches against metal. The viewport gives him the perfect view of smoke, more smoke, and the occasional gleam of rebar before it cracks against the transparisteel and careens away.

And then the smoke clears to sparkling dots on the empty black backdrop of space.

In the freighter's 360° panoramic screen to his left, he watches as the war cruiser erupts in a thousand miniature explosions and falls out of orbit towards the planet nearby.

Another relatively close call. Another relatively brilliant reward.

Mereel grins.

**iii.**

The window of the upper class luxury suite threatens to slam shut on him at any moment. Which wouldn't be so bad, if slamming shut didn't mean that the local Security Force has discovered he's there.

At least, discovers him before he'd left the planet.

Being half naked isn't particularly helpful either, although it does serve as a good distraction in the event he gets caught. His state of undress often brings some questions to light that he prefers not to address, more because other sentients seem to lose fifty points of intelligence upon seeing his _outstanding physique_ than taking the two seconds it requires to come to the obvious conclusion.

He balances one leg on the ledge outside the window, one that's only _slightly_ wider than his foot, while the other half of his body contorts awkwardly to slip out the window with minimum contact to the frame.

Oh yeah. Another clean getaway.

"James?!"

Mereel is not known for startling easily, but that does not mean he doesn't have his moments. Especially when both a persistent Security Force and a particularly clingy female humanoid enters into the equation.

His head slams into the upper part of the plastisteel frame. His neck cracks against the edge. His foot slips. And then he tumbles out of the 57th storey window.

When he opens his eyes, he faces the clear sky. The world moves quickly around him, warping the cityscape to a blur of gray, while bright blue sunlight shines on his face. His bare back presses painfully into the seat divider of an open-top speeder, his legs sprawled over two empty cushions.

"You're an idiot," grunts his clone brother—his mirror image except for the graying hair at the temples and the creased stress lines that Mereel definitely did not have—over the noise of the repulsorlift engines. "The biggest _shabla_ idiot I've ever seen."

"Prudii," Mereel hums, unable to smother his _utter delight_. "Your timing is impeccable."

**iv.**

"Not to _sing my own praise_," Mereel murmurs to the lady on his arm—a female Devaronian with high cheek-bones and covered in a coarse layer of pale blond fur, who also happens to be his contact in the system. "But I am _quite_ the cook."

"Few men take the time to master such a talent," replies the woman as her grip tightens imperceptibly on his arm. Curious, Mereel slides his attention away from her slanted golden eyes and over to the entrance of the obscenely decadent high class party.

And it seems his night has taken a turn for the better—the political official he's tracked for some time now descends the gaudy elevated steps with an obnoxious amount of applause and celebration worthy of the spoiled _nobles_ crowding around him. Upon brief inspection of the rotund official, from the other side of the room, the Null can tell he's going to enjoy _persuading_ the man to join the Republic's cause.

It's either that or political suicide, an option that no seedy, greedy, corrupt politician who gorges on the praise from _his people,_ and relies too heavily on his bloated bank accounts, can take. And the Null has a feeling that said _official_ knows, just as well as he does, that the _adoring_ public of planet Sindorei would just _love_ to learn about the aforementioned private bank accounts that steadily grow off of the tax-payers hard-earned credits.

After all, Mereel certainly did when he stumbled on to them.

"What can I say, m'lady?" Mereel flashes his most charming smile. "I am a man of many _talents,_ and wholly at _your_ service."

The thinly veiled suggestion brings a faint red blush to her elegant face, and she presses a gloved hand to her mouth to stifle the pleased smile.

"Hmmm," Mereel hums as he leads his contact to the dance floor. "What say you, m'lady Eclipse? May I have you… for dinner?"

"This is highly unprofessional." She blushes a deeper shade of red as her hands skirt up his arms to rest on his shoulders. He gently encircles her thin waist with a light, but firm, grip.

Mereel softly clicks his teeth. "Unprofessional?" he asks with a knowing smile. "Let's call it… a business meeting."

Eclipse curls her head to the side and laughs. "Yes," she breathes. "Yes, I would very much enjoy a dinner. With you."

For the rest of the night, Mereel floats on a natural high. Eclipse isn't her real name, but he decides it suits her fine. Just fine.

**v.**

The times where Mereel develops a connection with another sentient, beyond the boundaries of _acquaintance_ and _useful contact,_ are few and far in between. It isn't so much a preference as a necessity, and despite his great success in the world of socializing, he finds he's quite comfortable with his small circle of loved ones set aside under the mental category he labels as _Family._

But in the back of a Lower City dive on Taris—ironically named _Ya Hanga,_ The Sky in Huttese—he faces the betrayed expression of a Twi'lek contact. A contact and a friend, one he thought he could trust, but one who had instead stabbed him in the back. Literally.

Retribution, Mereel thinks, is not all it's cracked out to be. He can't change the past, can't undo the mistake, can't fix the situation to make his cover un-blown and his near death experience to be less near death.

The Null can only repay in turn. After all, one good deed deserves another.

"Traitor," the prisoner sneers on his knees, his green lekku falling limp down his back from his shaking shoulders. "Scum. You choose to be a slave to this…this corrupt, criminal government? A shadow of what it once was. Democr—"

A flash of blue lights up the cantina. The silence that follows is heavy and thick with smoke and ozone and what _could have been_ but wasn't.

Mereel glances at the smoke rising from the blaster in his hands. A soft _blow_ from his lips clears the air, and he drops the weapon to the ground. It doesn't have his prints; but even if it did, the only people who would care are the remnants of the Separatist faction on this city planet. He takes a second glance at the dead Twi'lek on the ground—was a contact, was a friend, and is now an _example_—and then vacates the empty cantina.

Friends, he thinks, are not all they're cracked out to be, either.

But, as far as Mereel is concerned, he's already over it.


End file.
